Metanoia
by Sirencalls
Summary: Who will survive? (Yet another version of what might happen in the higly expected City of Heavnly Fire. All rights reserved to Cassandra Clare.)
1. Prologue

**Prologue **

Tessa looked up and down the building, her hands taking down the hood of her coat. It has been decades since she last saw the familiar shape of an Institute. She was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of nostalgia. Though they were in New-York, and not in London, the place where she first met the Shadowhunters, about two centuries ago, it felt just like returning home.

"Who's running it?" she asked as her friend took a step at her sides.

Around them, York Street was buzzing and humming with the noise of the city. People, chin down, nuzzled in their scarfs, did not seem to pay attention to them. After all, she reminded herself, they were only two teenagers staring at an old crumbled building. Why would they care? She turned to glance at Jem. He wore jeans and a coat that matched his shiny dark hair. It has been nearly a month since they had met again. She should have been used to see him in modern days outfits by now, but she wasn't. It was odd not seeing him wrapped in the parchment robes of the Silent Brothers, as he was during more than 130 years, or in victorian clothes, like he used to before joining the Brotherhood. It was even odder not to recognize his silvery hair and eyes, as they had turned back into the color he had been born with.

"It used to be a Starkweather, until recently." he said then, gazing at the gates of the building.

She caught her breath, feeling uneasy.

"Really?"

He nodded. "Yes, though he was not the most… decent one. Unfortunately, his actions got back at him."

_Oh_, she thought. The sudden nervousness that caught her at the mention of the name of her family slowly faded, and she exhaled.

"Then who runs the place now?", she continued, frowning.

Jem caught her hand at the same time he pushed the iron gates guarding the Institute. "Let's find out, shall we?"


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Music was coming from Luke and Jocelyn's living-room as Isabelle opened the front door, unlocked. She entered the house with a sigh, and froze. The music was louder now she was in, and she could see that what she had took for howling cats were in fact Clary and Simon. Singing. At loud. And out of key, of course. Perplex, she took a few steps forward and rested by the kitchen bar, from where she could admire the uncommon scene. None of them had heard her arrival, for they were both completely absorbed by their task at the moment, and turned their backs at her. They were both standing on the brand new red velvet couch, an acquisition of Jocelyn, probably, and danced awkwardly as they sung a pop rock song about some silly boy regretting some bad decisions. "_Silly boys, you ran away, you're unemployed, waist the way__…_" Isabelle could see the giant TV screen behind them.

She could not help but laugh, quietly, her eyes on Simon. He looked so genuinely happy right now, being silly with his best friend. It has been a long time since she had seen him like that, just a silly innocent boy. The song ended and they both collapsed on the couch, giggling. She dragged herself away from such thoughts, and cleared her throat. Simon and Clary stopped laughing thoughtlessly and turned to face Isabelle, Simon suddenly jumping to his feet as he recognized her figure.

"Isabelle!"

Trying to hide her grin, she took a few steps in their direction and crossed her arms on her chest.

"You _do_ know you shouldn't let your door open like that, right?"

"We didn't expect anyone." Simon mumbled, touching the back of his neck with his palm.

"_Clearly_."

Clary, whom she were barely paying attention to, shrugged her shoulders. "We were bored. Everyone else is busy, and they wouldn't let us anyway near the Institute, so Simon thought we may as well try to be ordinary people for a while…"

She shut down the TV which was displaying their rankings and lied back on the multicolored cushions decorating the red sofa.

Isabelle snorted. "Which you are not."

Clary snapped back with annoyance: "We know that, thank you. But it's good to pretend once in a while. It's like, you know, ditching school. Sometimes you just need to do it."

"Well", Isabelle began, "time to go back to class. I was… in the neighborhood when I had a call from my mom. Apparently, there's someone who wants to meet us back at the Institute. All of us."

Simon, who still stood awkwardly in the middle of the living-room, his hands tucked in his pockets like he did not know what to do with them, frowned, and in the same time a lock of hair fell on his forehead and this made Isabelle want to rush into his arms and cuddle with him.

"Even me?"

She hesitated. "Well, she didn't say your presence was required…but since you are there, you might as well come."

But they were both already at the door; Clary had seized Simon by his wrist, dragging him through the room, clutching her jacket from the wall.

"Who cares? Come on, let's go!"

"You really are bored, aren't you?", Isabelle grinned as she went after them in the entryway.

* * *

"Why are we here?" Clary asked, clearly unpleased. "Shouldn't we be at the Institute?"

Isabelle sighed. Clary may have been one of her closest friend, and Isabelle may have loved her dearly—almost as much as she loved her brothers—but this girl could really be annoying when she wanted to.

She did not reveal their first destination to any of her companions, because, though she would ever admit it, Isabelle was slightly embarrassed by it. But now they were here, she could not do anything else but tell the truth. But they were now standing in front of stairs that plunged into the ground, the bottom completely disappearing in the thick darkness. An old metropolitan sign, made of scrunch green metal was hung above their heads, on an arcade. Curved gold letters formed the words "Jailhouse Den". When one looked at it closely, one could see that the 'o' of 'jailhouse' was actually a drawing: a gold serpent biting its own tail. Two bigger snakes were forming the sides of the metal board, undulating their green metal bodies into different directions down the arch, one to the left, and one to the right, their reptilian tongues sticked out in a menacing manner. Mundanes around them would pass them by as they made their way in the crowded street, ignoring them, as if blind to the gloomy entrance.

"Isabelle? We've never been here before… Why…"

Isabelle turned to face Clay and Simon, who both stood behind her with a confused look on their faces.

"We need to fetch Alec first."

Their puzzled look intensified.

"_Here_?", Clary inquired, "but what Alec would want to do here? This looks like a filthy place, obviously."

She tried not to look at Simon while speaking, and swore interiorly as she felt a slight blush on her cheeks. Then, she began her explication. She tried to make them understand that since he broke up with Magnus, Alec was not really in shape to do anything. He refused to go on missions, which was absolutely not like him. He spent his nights out, and when he came back home—not until morning— he just collapsed on his bed all day, in the dark. Isabelle though at first that he had been bitten. But then, a few weeks ago, he started going out by daylight, which convinced her that he was not turning into a vampire. Although, he looked worse and worse, and he wouldn't talk to her about it.

"Like you said, Clary, everyone was busy doing something else, so they barely noticed, even Jace…" muttered Isabelle. "But I guess I understand. I did notice though, and I was worried. So one night, I followed him down here."

She had spoken the last words without breathing, ignoring her throat that had tightened. Clary looked horrified. As for Simon, from whom she caught a glance behind the locks of her hair, he looked simply really concerned, and the expression on his face was anxious, not pitiful, nor disgusted as she had had expected.

"What is this place, exactly?" He asked simply, then, his eyes narrowing at the stairs behind her.

"That's the problem." Isabelle mumbled. "I know it used to be some sort of opium den back in the 1880s, and later, a speakeasy during Prohibition…You get the idea. There is no glamour, so Mundanes can actually see it as it is: a gloomy bar. Most of them don't pay attention, as you can see. But from what _I_ have seen, some are regular customers. Thing is, it's plagued with Downworlders—nasty ones— and demons."

"DEMONS?" Clary shouted.

Isabelle plucked at her mouth with her gloved hand. "Not so loud, for the Angel's sake!"

"Sorry…But really, _demons_?"

"Explains the smell." Simon murmured. "But wait, they're mixing with Mundanes? Do these people know?"

"I have never seen such thing before", she nodded. "But I can tell you that the Mundanes who come here are not the most recommendable people either."

"Why does Alec come here then? I mean, we're talking about _Alec_…" Clary articulated.

Isabelle sighed. That was more like the reaction she had expected. Though they were trying, they could not understand. She hated to put her friends in this situation, but she had no one else to turn to. Jace could not be bothered with Alec's whereabouts right now—especially not now— and she could not imagine herself going to her mom. She had thought of Magnus once or twice; he might have been able to help her, but she knew that it would not do much good. Besides, would have he even wanted to help? After all, they had broken up…

She forced herself to adopt a detached tone.

"Anyway. Most demons only come at night, for they cannot face the daylight. So it should be clear enough at this time of the day. I hate to do this, but Mom asked for all of us and if Alec doesn't show up, this could go really bad for him and…"

Her eyes were no longer dry as she spoke. She cleared her throat again.

"Anyway, I'll be out in no time. Just wait for me here."

Simon seemed to have been electrocuted.

"Wait wha-Do you really think that I am going to let you go in there by yourself?"

She startled and looked directly at him, this time. She tried to hide a smile as she answered fiercely: "Well, I did it plenty times, and I don't want any of you in my way if-"

"Isabelle."

Clary looked grave, now.

"Simon is right, there is absolutely no way we're letting you go alone in there."

"Well, I'm certainly not letting you in there either! This is not why I brought you both…"

"Then why did you bring us for? Guard the door?" Simon snapped bitterly.

"As a matter of fact, _yes_."

"Well, dream on. Come on, give me a weapon."

Clary's look was demanding as she stretched her hand towards Isabelle, who stared at her for a moment.

"Oh, please, don't tell me you have no spare weapon under all of_ that_."

She was pointing at Isabelle's black velvet coat, so long it reached her heels covered with the leather of her boots. Isabelle's mind was racing. That was not the way she would have wanted things to go. They were supposed to stay on top of the stairs while she went down to drag her brother out of this mineshaft. But of course, she was only fooling herself thinking that someone like Clary would want to listen any of her orders. But a few extra hands could not hurt in this delicate task ; she just had to adjust her initial plan, and it seemed like it could be for the best.

"Fine!" she finally puffed out, plunging under her long coat to catch a seraph blade hidden in her boot. "Its name is Gabael. Alec is usually by the bar, so we get in, I'll approach him first to distract him—cause he won't just come with us willingly— and Clary, you will put this on his nose." She handed her a handkerchief that Clary tucked carefully in the pocket of her vest. "And then we carry him out. We must be as unobtrusive as possible. Ok?"

They gave a quick nod of their heads as a sign of understanding. She took a sharp look at her friends. Simon was wearing black, which was good: nobody will notice him. But Clary was wearing an electric blue jacket that ill-suited with her red hair. Her Marks were showing on her pale neck, barely concealed by a white scarf.

"Cover your Marks, by the Angel!" she gasped as she reached for the clip that hold Clary's hair in a knot. "If anyone down here sees them, we might as well shoot ourselves in the foot right now."

"What if something goes wrong, though?" the red-headed asked as she readjusted her locks, her cheeks blushing. "Won't we need some kind of code?"

"Yeah, I like that!" Simon exulted. "We could whistle the beginning of _The Flying Dutchman_, like in…"

"We are not going to whistle, Simon! Is that clear?" she eructed. "Nothing will go wrong."

Simon looked disappointed but she did not care.

"Just… stay close to me, both of you, and let me do the talk," she added after a moment.

"Isabelle. May I remind you that I am the one who killed two Greater Demons this past 6 months, and summoned the Angel? I think we can handle a few grouchy Downworlders." Simon beamed.

"Magnus summoned the Angel ; you just chatted with him, and he erased your mark. You're not invincible anymore, Simon. I don't want you to get hurt, so please do as I say."

She bit her lower lip; she did not want to sound so begging. But her eyes clutched deep into Simon's for a long moment before Clary coughed uncomfortably. He nodded and she let out a long breath she did not remind holding.

"Let's go."


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"You tricked me!"

Tessa had trouble maintaining an equal tone. She looked angrily at Jem in the armchair beside hers. He had the decency to look repentant, as he passed a hand in his silky hair, his eyes lost in the contemplation of the fire. He looked young, not more than nineteen or twenty years old, yet his many years reflected somehow on his face; it was as if he was carrying with him the ghosts of his long life. For a moment, Tessa wondered if she looked the same. But she was too unpleased to think clearly at the moment.

When they stood at the gates, naively, she had thought Jem as ignorant as she was. After all, they have spent the last month out and about in Asia, which was the place Jem wanted to see most. They had no connection with the Nephilims, at least she hadn't. It has been years since she met another Nephilim. After her family's death, she never wished to remain in the business of Shadowhunters, and most of all, she did not wish to be near anyone who might recall her ancient life. She had decided to put it aside and travel the world. Although, she had found out over the years, it was not possible. She crossed path with Nephilim so many times, as she did with Jocelyn Morgenstern right after the Insurrection. She has always been careful, though, and never stayed long enough to tie any sort of bonds with anyone. She always left at the exact right time.

She did not blame Jem, nor the faith that she had put in him. After all, she made the decision not to question his intentions of coming to New York, although she should have. Of course, she should have. She knew that Jem used to spend much time in the city as Brother Zachariah. What she did not know, though, was that he had tied some bonds with the Nephilim running it, for obvious reasons.

A woman welcomed them as soon as they passed the wooden gates of the Institute. She was tall, dark-haired, and stunning. Then Jem called her name with a certain warmth and they hugged, leaving Tessa stupefied by the door.

"Tessa, this is Maryse Lightwood," he had said. "Maryse, this is Tessa Gray."

"Pleasure," the woman had smiled.

Utterly unfocused, she shook hands with the woman, quietly. For a minute or so, all she could do was brooding on the name she had just heard, trying to process the information ; then she started thinking about turning away and running, head first in the New-York crowd. But her legs seemed like they were anchored in the as a result of her cowardice, they were now both sitting at Maryse's office, in the library, waiting for her to come back with tea.

"I'm sorry, Tessa."

She did not look at Jem and snorted.

"Right. Don't you dare thinking you're fooling me, James Carstairs."

She eventually glanced at him, and continued: "_Lightwoods_? Really, James? What were you thinking?"

"You ought to understand that hurting you was not my intention."

She got up, unable to stay still on her chair, unable to think, not when he was talking to her like that. She took a few steps towards the burning fire, turning her back to Jem. She startled when she felt his hand, as soft as spider web, on her arm.

"Listen," he said, drawing her towards him, imprisoning delicately her face into his hot palms. "I'm sorry. Truly. I wish I could have told you the truth. But then, I knew that if I had, you wouldn't have agreed to come at all."

She frowned. "Well, of course, I wouldn't have! Jem…"She tried to soften her voice. "Jem, you know how I feel towards family bonds…"

He laughed, and though his voice sounded warm, and kind and loving, as it always did, the absence of joy was striking.

"I know. Actually, I think I know how you feel about any mortal bonds.", he let out, tucking a lock of her brown hair tenderly behind her ear.

She could see the pain in his eyes, and she felt like there was a strain in her insides. She hated the thought that Jem could be hurt by anything, anyone.

"Jem…"

"Well, well," spoke a clearly amused voice. "If this isn't familiar at all."

Tessa parted from Jem with surprise, her eyes searching the shadows upstairs to see who intrude their conversation, where as Jem only tucked his hands in the pockets of his jeans, sighing.

"Hello, Magnus," he said.

A figure suddenly emerged out of the dark, up the stairs that made way to the door. Magnus Bane. His hands rested on the wooden railing of the stairs. He was just as Tessa remembered: a thin long figure, black straight hair reaching his shoulders, a fair face with a square, delicate jaw, and orange cat eyes. He was smiling down at them, obviously entertained by whatever he was looking at.

"Tessa Herondale." Magnus grinned even more.

"Gray. No one calls me Herondale anymore, Magnus, and it's been 65 years that I'm telling you so," she sighed.

"Right, but I like to do so. It makes me feel special, you see."

Magnus started to walk down the stairs casually, his long indigo coat floating behind his thin body, his arms outstretched. Now she had a closer look, she could see that his face was shining bright, covered with some sort of glittering make-up. His cat eyes were two burning lights sparkling in the dark. Tessa made her way to meet him down the stairs, and gave him a warm hug.

"What brings you here?"

"Aren't you pleased to see me?" he asked, the timbre of his voice taunted with fake hurt.

She laughed while breaking their clasp.

"Of course I am, old friend."

"Huh, whatever." He said, examining his painted nails with disdain. "See, I would rather return your question, if I did not know the answer. Couldn't resist to check on your progeny, could you?"

His tone was mocking: he was clearly enjoying this. She nodded, frowning.

"Magnus, even though I have, and I will always consider the Lightwoods as family, you know I—"

But before she could finish her sentence, the warlock interrupted her, raising his eyebrows, puzzled. Any trace of amusement had vanished from his winsome features.

"I didn't mean the Lightwoods, dear. I meant the Herondales."

Tessa suddenly felt like her body was slowly turning into ice. Her old, though vigorous heart missed a bump or two. That can't be, she thought. Her voice, when she quizzed him, was not as steady as she would have liked it to be.

"What?"

She heard Jem exhaled behind them and then: "Magnus, couldn't you have appeared from nowhere five minutes later?"

She turned to look at him, puzzled. He was frowning at Magnus, as if the warlock had done something reprehensible. She turned back at Magnus.

"Oh. You did not get to _that_ part yet, did you?" Magnus scorned. "I see. Too busy flirting with your old parabatai's wife…"

"Magnus." There was a threatening inflection in her voice as she spoke, but it was more out of exhaustion then hurt.

"I'm only joking. I might have rooted for you two, when _you_ were sick. But that was because you were sick, really." he said, pointing at Jem with condescendence.

"Enough."

She tried to steady her tone. "Now tell me what you meant exactly when you so carelessly mentioned my family."

Magnus exchanged a grave look with Jem, and then shrugged.

"Not my girlfriend, mate."

She stared at Jem severely, waiting for him to answer her question. Finally, he let out a long breath.

"There is a Herondale in this Institute. The last one, actually."

* * *

Jace lied on his back on the deserted roof, eyes closed, hands behind his skull. He was casually perched on one of the arches holding the structure of the Institute, one of his long legs swinging to the side, perilously menacing his balance. He could hear the buzzing noise of the city, down the building, the bustling clamor of cars and buses and their obnoxious klaxon squealing in traffic, the indistinct shoutings down York Avenue, the howling sirens of the police cars, the wind whistling between the towers forming the rooftop. The sky above him was a pale, pearly white. Winter was finally here, though the temperature was not low enough to produce proper snow, yet it was already too cold for rain ; this peculiar phenomenon produced only dirty snow-melt that formed puddles on the sidewalks. But the temperature was no longer a problem for Jace ; not since his encounter with the angel's sword. He was actually thankful for winter.

At the moment, he was only wearing a pair of black jeans and a marine tank top showing the Marks on his muscled arms and neck. He had learnt this past month to wear as less clothing as possible, for he did not wish to see his entire wardrobe disappear at such an alarming rate. Indeed, after burning unintentionally a hole the size of his fist on the collar of a third sweater, he had decided to become more stingy in his way of dressing, at least until he could figure out a way of maintaining his temperature low enough.

The ideal temperature provided here on the rooftop, that forbid the fire literally igniting from his body at any moment, was not the only comfort he could find. He also liked to come here because it became the only place he could think clearly.

The last month was, without any doubt, a rough one. Jace had never felt more alone than he was now. His new abilities prohibited too much of social interaction, and he was forced to spend most of his days alone. The only regular company he had was Brother Joshua's, whom the Clave appointed to deal with him when Brother Zachariah, or more likely, _Jem Carstairs_, then in charge of him, had left. He had mourned this departure, because he really enjoyed his company. Jem was not like the others Silent Brothers ; he did not mind breaking a few rules, and had been quite fun to be around. But as soon as he had been gone, things got a lot dimmer. Joshua was nothing like Jem indeed, and to Jace's own despair, he was utterly devoted to following the rules. With him, Jace felt like he was another of their experiments. And frankly, this idea made him sick.

It has been weeks since he had spoke with someone else than the Silent Brother, or occasionally, Maryse. Alec and Isabelle were assigned on missions, which took them out of the Institute most of the time and from which his participation was obviously prohibited. The only opportunity left to steal a moment with his siblings was dinner; although, even this was often denied to him because both of them often missed it, or were too exhausted to hold a proper conversation, and not to mention the fact that the presence of their mother did not help.

For example, he would have liked to talk to Alec about his recent break up with Magnus. This event has been a complete surprise and real chock to everyone. And ever since, Jace had noticed that his brother looked shattered indeed, and the thought that both of them could use a night out often crossed his mind. Surely the slaughter of one or two Eidolons with his parabatai, the thrill of a fight, like old times, and why not even a night of inebriation would bring Alec back to life for at least a moment. But he felt the time was never right to raise the subject.

Yet, the worse part of it was, unquestionably, not being able to see Clary. If Jem used to tolerate her visits at the Institute, Brother Joshua, on the opposite, had forbidden them as soon as he figured out the effect of her presence on Jace: each encounter was inevitably followed by a dangerous raise of his temperature. Where Jem had been genuinely amused to single out this last fact, Brother Joshua had been alarmed and horrified ; soon, he had confessed his worries to Maryse and they both decided to limit their interactions. Clary had been mortified when Maryse had told her the reasons why, but all Jace could think was: how will he survive this if she could not be there? It has been two weeks already, and obviously their daily calls were an unsatisfactory substitute. He missed her so much it physically pained him ; he could feel the absence of her in every bone, every portion of his skin...

A violent pain suddenly made him jerk out in sitting position, so brutally that he almost fell off his spot. His heart was racing, his palms sweaty, and his throat tightened as he lifted the hem of his shirt. Underneath the fabric, on his left ribs, just right beneath his heart, his parabatai Mark, the one that bound him to Alec, was glowing red.


	4. Chapter 3

Clary's heart was beating fast in her chest, probably because they have just dived numerous flights of stairs. The club was indeed unexpectedly buried deep under the ground, much deeper than she had thought.

As they were climbing down, she noticed, with much surprise, that instead of going dimmer, the light was actually getting glossier. The steps were no longer crumbled, but unswerving and uniform. They had landed in a long paved entryway, bordered by alleys filled with black sand mixed with what looked like coral powder. Bushes of hydrangeas flowered densely here and there on each side of the doors, and poison ivy had conquered the whole façade. She did not even bother to wonder how flowers could grow underground: little could surprise her now.

It was only after passing the glassed doors, now they were taking their first steps on the polished marble of the Jailhouse Den, that she realized the luxury of the location. All three of them stood still on the first step that made way down in the place, indeed, looked miles away from her expectations.

It was set out on two levels, separated by flights of five large white steps, like the one they were handing on. The painted ceiling, was sustained by immense greek-like colonnades. Despite the lack of natural light, the limestone made it look spacious and immaculate. Bulbs of light were shining everywhere and a colossal golden chandelier, hung high above their heads, gleamed radiantly, spilling soft lamplight all over. On the left, stood a carved wooden counter, furnished with stools which seats were filled and covered with deep red leather. Most of them were taken. Hundreds of old-fashioned bottles of liquor, and crystal glasses were displayed on mirrorlike shelves behind the bar. The rest of the room was filled with round tables, cloaked with pearly white flax ; at the center of each one, an opulent bouquet of white orchids was arranged delicately. None of the high-back seats, which were matching the leather of the stools by the counter, were occupied.

Waiters, attired in black from head to toe, were carrying large silver trails, some empty, some plated with silver dishes, whirling all over the room and stopping momentarily at one of the tables like bees hoarding honey, as they dressed the tables for lunch. At the other side of the room, a woman, all dressed in white, was talking to a pianist on the stage. She was very tall but well proportioned. Clary could not see her features yet, but she guessed the woman must be beautiful, with her platinum blond hair pouring like a waterfall down to her waist. Clary shifted her looks from the heavy red velvet curtain retained on each side of the stage with golden loops to the right wall, and realized it was actually made of looking-glass. The reflection of the room made it appear even wider and clearer, and for a moment, she got completely lost in its contemplation.

"Well, that's what one could call a striking contrast."

She turned to Simon, who had just spoken aloud her exact thoughts.

They left the stairs and followed Isabelle towards the counter. Clary was too distracted to notice that Isabelle had stopped midway, and bumped into her.

"Ouch…Sorry," she said.

But Isabelle stood still ; she had paled, and her hands were shaking.

"What's wrong?" Simon asked.

"I can't see him. I can't see him anywhere."

Isabelle's voice was just a whisper, and Clary could feel the panic gaining her friend.

"Ok…Is that a good or a bad thing?" Simon asked then.

"It's bad, Simon!" Isabelle almost shouted. "It's very bad! What are you thinking?"

She was shaking now, and in a gesture full of frustration, she broke from Clary's clasp on her left hand.

"Argh! Just wait here."

They both watched her walking angrily at the bar and leaning on it to murmur at the barman's ear. Clary had just noticed his presence behind the counter. He was tall and muscular, fair haired, and had a square jaw. As he bent down towards Izzie, Clary thought she had seen a tattoo curving at the base of his neck, which made her think of the brand new Marks her mother had applied on her own collar weeks ago. Could he be Nephilim? Was this why Isabelle was not afraid to come here? But when she tried to have a closer look, she could not distinguish anything.

Simon teared her away from her thoughts: "What do you think of this place, huh?"

"I think they're trying to be funny." Clary answered, lifting her head to examine the painted ceiling.

Now the surprise was passed, she could pay a closer attention to it. The angels, no longer appearing sweet and naive, seemed to grin evilly down at them.

Izzie was back.

"Ian said he saw Alec this morning, as usual." She said. "But when he came back from the reserve ten minutes ago, Alec wasn't at the bar anymore."

Simon tucked his hands in the pockets of his blazer, an expression of disgust pinned on his face as he gave a look to the bartender.

"Can we trust this guy?"

"Yeah, he's a friend." frowned Isabelle.

"What kind of a _friend_?" Simon quizzed, his eyes shifting from Isabelle to the bartender with animosity.

Clary could see where all this was getting. Isabelle was about to snap back at Simon, but Clary was faster ; she lifted up her hands to impose the silence to her friends.

"Ok! Let's focus. Alec could not have left the den, we would have crossed path upstairs…"

Isabelle closed her mouth and nodded.

"Yeah, and I doubt there's another exit, and even if there is, Alec couldn't possibly…"

"Maybe he's in the men's room? I'll check." proposed Simon, shrugging his shoulders.

Without another word, the three of them walked toward the other side of the room, near the stage, where a polished glass wall was concealed by bushes of hydrangeas, just like outside. They slid in the corridor.

Isabelle and Clary waited for Simon to check the inside of the men's room, posted like guardians on each sides of the wooden door, their eyes scrutinizing the ball room. But there was no trace of Alec.

"Izzie…Look!"

At the other end of a room, on the second level, two men were escorting a third, cloaked in black, retaining him by the arms. His legs were dragging on the marble floor. They seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Suddenly, the hood of the third man fell, discovering his dangling head: he was unconscious. Clary hold a gasp.

"What the…? Come on."

Izzie started to walk towards them.

"Wait!" whispered a voice behind them.

Clary, Simon and Isabelle turned in the same movement. Clary recognized the figure of the woman who stood on the stage earlier. She was now behind an ajar door that none of them had noticed. But how did she get there without being seen?

"What?" said Isabelle, her hand drawing to her golden whip. "Who are you?"

"Follow me", she simply said, staying in the shadows.

She had a light accent, probably from eastern Europe. Clary turned to Simon, and guessed that the same worried look was probably painted on her own features.

"I don't think that's answering my question." Izzie said and then repeated, threat in her voice: "_Who are you_?"

The woman sighed with impatience, and took a step into the light. She was slightly taller than Izzie, thin, and athletic. She had a square, but delicate jaw, big, almond-shaped grey eyes, with long eyelashes, coral full lips and an exceptionally perfect complexion, even more embellished by the color of her clothes. Her blond hair was spilling on her shoulders in soft waves. Her beauty was bewitching. She was literally radiant.

"Please", she said, giving a worried look across the room behind them. "Follow me. I…I know where your brother is."

At those words, Izzie's shoulders startled, and with a gesture, she ordered to Simon and Clary to follow them. The three of them passed the door.


End file.
